Strands of Bronze and Gold (7 page)

I mentally shook myself and stretched out my arms. Whoever those women were, their fate would not be mine. I was very much alive and well and intended to stay that way. I had been offered this opportunity and was not going to mope. M. Bernard’s philosophy was a good one for my present circumstances.
Carpe diem!
I would pluck the day, whatever that meant.

“Miss Sophia!”

Mrs. Duckworth sounded surprised to find me huddled in bed. “Are you feeling ill?”

“No, ma’am.” I poked my head out.

“You
will
go down to supper with the master, won’t you?” Her hands wrung the hem of her apron.

“Of course.”

She relaxed and bobbed her head. “Good. I’d hate to tell him you
weren’t coming. He has a treat planned, and it’s time you dressed for it. He has made a special request for your outfit.”

“For my outfit?”

“Yes, indeed.” She gave a little chuckle. “You’ll be a trifle surprised. Master has always had particular tastes and is
that
determined about them.”

I followed her to the wardrobe now, curious.

Mrs. Duckworth brought forth an odd foreign costume.

It consisted of pieces much too small or too sheer to cover me properly. There was a skirt of gossamer silk, the color of bluebells and heavily embroidered, a short blouse embellished with silver beads, and a gauzy shawl or veil.

I eyed the garments doubtfully. “They’re pretty, but I’ve never worn anything like them. They’re a bit … sparse of material.”

From the way Mrs. Duckworth clicked her tongue, I knew she was displeased. “You can’t believe the master would
ever
require anything that was improper. He has prepared several foreign outfits for you that are different from what you are accustomed to, but not ill judged, and surely you’ll humor him by wearing them. He’s a man of fancies—it comes of having traveled so much. They remind him of places he’s been and times he remembers fondly.”

Did I have a choice? One always has a choice. I could snatch an evening gown from the wardrobe and put it on myself. I could announce that I wouldn’t go down to dinner and then sit sulking in my bedchamber all night.

Some mischievous spirit entered me.
Carpe diem!
Monsieur’s fancies were simply part of his quest for the picturesque and unusual. Unlike other garments in the wardrobe, the costume would
certainly fit and be comfortable. One could not don a corset or hoop with it, after all. And I would like to see myself as an Indian girl. Besides, except for the bare stomach, this outfit was not unlike the costume Mrs. Amelia Bloomer, the dress reformer, was currently promoting. I insisted on wearing my camisole beneath the midriff-baring top, however.

“Now,” Mrs. Duckworth said, “I do believe—yes, there it is—here is a box of accessories meant to adorn it.”

Silver bangles, a gem-set tiara representing the sun, moon-shaped earrings, and a starry pendant were nestled in the crinkly tissue paper of the jewelry case she handed me. There was also a single hoop that might be a nose ring. It I left in the tissue.

Surveyed in the eight-foot pier-glass mirror, my outfit was both interesting and quaint, although it would have had smoother lines without the camisole. My godfather would tease me about it, of course.

I studied my reflection, partly wanting the reassurance that I still looked like me and partly hoping I would have changed at least a little in this setting.

I was only Sophie turned out in foreign clothes.

As I entered the banquet hall, my godfather’s eyes twinkled when he took in the camisole, but to my surprise, he made no comment. Instead, he called me his lovely Morgiana. He told me that Indian dancing girls wore this clothing, their jewelry jangling as they twirled, and that the blouse was known as a
choli
.

“English missionaries introduced it to the women of India,” he said. “The parsons were too distracted from their good work by bare breasts. Evidently they did not mind the bare belly.”

Men in Boston did not discuss bosoms in mixed company. And hopefully not in masculine company either. At least my brothers didn’t. I tried not to register discomfiture at his allusion to them. Instead, I said, “It’s very comfortable.” Then the silly, naughty spirit reared itself again, urging me to say something scandalous myself. “Of course, anything would be comfortable beside whalebone corsets that one can hardly cough in—or even
breathe
in—and petticoats and crinolines that one can hardly sit in. Why, I have nearly fallen countless times because I can’t see where my feet are stepping.” I watched his face to see what he thought of my mentioning unmentionables.

He lowered his eyes lazily to the area of my skirt. “Are you wearing underdrawers with this
ensemble
? The Indian maidens would not, you know.”

“They
what
?” I was thrown into confusion. “Of course I am—of course I’m wearing them,” I said, almost spluttering.

“Oh, Sophia,
ma belle
,” he said as he adjusted my tiara before sweeping one hand through my hair, “how long has it been since I told you that you were a delight? A whole day? I am remiss! An hour should not go by.”

I began to sit down at the table, although it wasn’t set for dinner. M. Bernard stopped me.

“No, we are not eating here. I have prepared a little surprise for you. Come.”

He took my arm and led me down a corridor to glass doors opening onto the veranda. Outside, dusk had fallen and mellow violet air enfolded us. Lighted Moroccan lanterns lined a path leading down the veranda steps. We stepped upon the golden glow.

M. Bernard didn’t speak and neither did I. Speech would have spoiled the expectant hush. We rounded a thick stand of towering evergreen trees.

I gasped. What I beheld was a dazzling sight. A building rose ahead—a building of light.

“It is the orangery,” M. Bernard whispered. “We dine there tonight.”

A thousand candles blazed behind glass walls.

“I used to plague my father to tell me all he knew of you,” I said, leaning back against the cushions (so much easier to sprawl when one wore dancing-girl clothes).

“Poor Martin. He knew little of me beyond our business together. Was he driven to make up tales to satisfy you?”

“No. I did that for myself.”

“Tell me some, Morgiana. Or should I call you Scheherazade?”

And so I did. I told of how I imagined him fighting rebellious Mongol tribesmen and living among the Bedouins. How, to me, he had found lost Atlantis and studied with Tibetan monks.

He laughed, but I could tell he was pleased. “You fancied me quite the hero.”

“I wasn’t disappointed when I met you yesterday. I still fancy you quite the hero. Of course, I often put myself in your stories as well.”

“I am glad. Since I fancy you quite the heroine. That is why I created this fairyland for you tonight.”

I basked in our surroundings. My heart swelled so at the beauty
that it was almost painful. Slender tapers were wired in all the orange and lemon and lime trees planted in great earthen pots lining the room, and the brilliant skins of the citrus fruits as well as the glass walls reflected the flames. Splendid silken cushions filled our dining bower, bordered with scarlet flowering vines twined over lattice.

We reclined upon the pillows and supped from foods spread on an enormous brass tray. Even the meal was magical. Cakes, so light and airy it seemed they might float away; cubes of pale, creamy cheeses that melted in my mouth; vegetables dipped in spicy sauce; pastel fruit that tasted of sunlight in far lands.

“I wanted you to be able to try new dishes without trepidation tonight,” he said. “No unexpected meats. No squid intestines. Not tonight anyway.”

“Thank you.”

“And here, drink this.” He tilted a metal pitcher enameled with bright flowers and poured golden liquid into a matching goblet. “It is called metheglin—honey mead flavored with lavender. A beverage favored by fairies.”

As I sipped, I idly wondered if it were alcoholic, but I was so enraptured I didn’t care.

Achal, M. Bernard’s valet, sat cross-legged behind a carved and pierced screen, playing a queer stringed instrument. It was a sitar, M. Bernard told me. Achal was an Indian man, probably older than middle-aged, but as slender and slight as a young boy, wearing a long tunic and pale, tight trousers. His music was haunting.

The very air sparkled. At least it did to me.

As I reached for another cake, a movement in the glass wall halted
me. I peered closer. It was my own reflection—a ghostly Sophia, pale and insubstantial, watching us with the darkness pooling behind her eyes.

“I toured the house today,” I told M. Bernard quickly, so I would stop looking at the ghost girl.

“And what did you think of it?”

“It’s incredible, fascinating, beautiful. Also mysterious. I don’t have enough words to tell you all I thought of it.”

“That was why I needed to own it.”

He told me how, year earlier, when he first laid eyes on Wyndriven Abbey over in England, he knew it must be his. And then when he traveled to Mississippi for the first time, and saw this land, he determined to live in it here. He had recently returned from Persia, and the lush green of the American South, he said, enchanted him after the desert, like drinking water after a long thirst. He bought the land from a Choctaw Indian and then brought Wyndriven Abbey over. Most men would have believed such a thing impossible, but not my godfather.

I wondered about the noble family who had once inhabited the abbey. Perhaps it had become a burden to them and they were happy to be out from under it. Still, had it been painful to lose it first to M. Bernard and then to see it ripped from its original location? But then, they had wrested it from the Church, so it was turnabout. It must be the way of things throughout history—wins and losses.

“Did you bring over the furnishings as well?” I asked.

“I did. Every bit of it just as the former owners had left it. They wanted nothing from the place. For weeks after everything was finally here, I explored what I owned. China in the cupboards and
boxes of yellowed papers in the muniment room and linens in chests and presses. I even found a parcel no one had ever bothered to unwrap.”

“What was in it?”

“In what?”

“The parcel.”

“Shaving supplies. Nothing thrilling.”

“What a shame. It should have been jewels.” I took a bite of cake. “Do you ever wonder how the stones felt to find themselves in Mississippi instead of the English countryside? It must have been a shock.”

M. Bernard nodded. “I am hoping it was a pleasant surprise. I hope they are still reveling in their good, stony fortune. English winters can be most unpleasant. Do you know I actually did live for several months among Bedouin tribesmen in Araby?”

He told me of that then, and of the mad duke he met in a castle in Bohemia and of the old Comanche he had discovered wandering in the western American desert who had been turned out of her tepee by her own people, to die alone. His enchanting voice painted enchanting pictures.

“What did you do with her?”

“I took her to the nearest fort and paid someone an exorbitant sum to care for her till she died. The poor old thing was terrified of white people, but I could not leave her wandering once I had found her.”

“Certainly you couldn’t. You had to do what you did, like the Good Samaritan. It amazes me that you’re so familiar with such far places and such people.”

“Well, American citizens and surroundings can seem nearly as alien. Wait until you hear of some of the characters I have met in the teeming jungles of New York City.”

“Have you considered writing a book?”

“I prefer to live my life in the present rather than mulling over what is long gone. Remember—
carpe diem
. It is my desire to live shining new adventures. I am hoping you will join me in my travels someday. But not for a while. I want you to become very familiar with the abbey so you will think of it as your home.”

I studied him as he spoke. I could see how he would be a great sportsman and explorer. He had a devil-may-care quality that would lead him always on to the next test, the next setting, the next adventure. But I thought I could also detect a sensitivity in him; after all, he was so good to me and had been kind to the servant boys and the poor Comanche woman.

Gradually longer pauses stretched between stories. M. Bernard signaled subtly to Charles, who waited behind a palm tree, and gestured for him to remove the tray. My godfather quenched all but one of the candles himself, pinching the flames between his fingers.

In the dusky light his shadowy figure returned to my side.

“Now,” he said, “lie back with me and watch the stars. The breeze today blew away the haze of humidity, so we should see them clearly.”

I lay back and peered through the glass roof at glimmering pinpoints until I felt dizzy. Achal’s music was a lullaby. I drifted off to sleep.

I dreamed as I slept. At first it started pleasantly: I stood alone in my bedroom at the abbey, fingering a necklace of blood-red rubies,
enjoying my pretty surroundings. However, the atmosphere changed slowly for no reason I could fathom. Sluggishly a nameless terror seeped into me. Something ghastly was about to happen. I sprang toward the door to call out frantically, “Anne, sister Anne, do you see my brothers?” And she answered from a distance, “Not yet.” That was all.